“Who are you, Father?” Patrick asked a moment later.
“My name is Shi’mon!”
The last milestone in his life came after his final high school year. He had just finished writing the last paper of the Government Certificate of Education (G. C. E Advanced Levels) Exams and was heading towards the main gate of the school campus with some of his friends to hail a taxi to take them home. The walk on the half-mile main drive was the best walk of his life. Finally, he was free; free of boarding school life! He had had subsequent meetings with Father Shi’mon after that fateful day, and everything was a well-kept secret, even from his closest of friends and family.
During those visits, Father Shi’mon had told him about the Order of the Rock. He also received some other forms of basic self-defense training that proved particularly useful against bullies. Father Shi’mon had left at the end of that school year to return to Rome, and Patrick never seen or heard from him after that. It saddened Patrick for a while but he eventually let it go. So, while he was on his way to the main gate to hail a taxi home, a black, luxury car came in through the gate and started making its way towards the school campus. It slowed to a stop when it came close to Patrick, and a tinted window rolled down to reveal a familiar face.
“Hello, Patrick,” Father Shi’mon said.
“Father Shi’mon!” Patrick exclaimed.
He could have hugged the man if there was no car door between the two of them. Father Shi’mon summoned a genuine smile. Patrick’s friends recognized the priest and greeted him. Father Shi’mon waved back at them and returned their greeting. As he waved, Patrick saw his ring, and his jaw dropped.
“Nice ride, Father,” Terence, Patrick’s close friend said.
Father Shi’mon nodded his thanks. Patrick was still too dumbfounded to say anything.
“Would you boys excuse us, please?” Father Shi’mon said to Patrick’s friends.
They complied and continued to the main gate. Father Shi’mon then turned his attention towards Patrick.
“So, have you decided?” he asked.
Patrick dropped to one knee and bowed his head.
“I am at your service, until the end of my days, Father Supreme,” Patrick replied without a moment’s hesitation.
Father Supreme extended his right hand through the window and Patrick kissed the ring. To those watching, Patrick had just genuflected and kissed Father Shi’mon’s hand. To Patrick, the ‘walk towards freedom’ had just taken an abrupt end. He now had work to do!
“Let’s get you home, shall we?” Father Supreme said as Patrick stood up, walked to the other side of the car and got in.
A decade later, Patrick Ngolle would earn the title of Protégé of Father Supreme and the reputation of being the only O. R. priest who almost bested Father Supreme in hand-to-hand combat. He left Sacred Heart College, barely an adult and walked into a world that would later nickname him Ether, the best agent in the O.R.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN: BIRTHING A BRIGHT EYE
“FALL TO THE RIGHT!” ordered General Sarko.
His order somehow filtered through the chaotic clashes weaponry and landed on one his captain’s ears. General Sarko was rumored to be the best general the Northern Kingdom had spawned in the last two centuries. The year was C. E. 594.
“FALL TO THE RIGHT!” reiterated the first captain to his troops.
The army of the Southern Kingdom was about to execute their signature attack: The Spear-Clam. It involved the army arranging themselves like the tip of a spear and charging head-on into the enemy. The enemy would be drawn to focus on the tip of the spear, while the attacking force would start breaking up from behind and spread across both sides of the enemy’s forces like a clam closing its shells on itself. The technique simulated a feeling of being swallowed up, and most enemies usually did not have the momentary counter. Victory was almost certain most of the time. But today, the South was fighting a once-upon-a-time-until-a-year-ago ally, who was familiar with this technique and was ready with a counter attack of theirs.
So, while the first captain peeled over with some of the troops to the right, the general peeled to the left with some the rest of the soldiers creating a clear path down the middle. The music of thousands of weapons kept playing as bodies dropped lifeless on both sides. However, the Royal Army of the North had not accounted for the fact that the Southern Kingdom had aligned with some of their old allies, promising these allies a share of the spoils. As such, the Royal Army of the North was outnumbered by three-to-two. Regardless, the North held their grounds and the battled seemed fair for the moment.
“Is there word of the princes, yet?” the general asked.
“They will be here soon, General!” replied a soldier.
“They better get here right now!” he cursed under his breath as he kept swinging at his enemies. “Royal brats!”
“They’re here!” another soldier cried out excitedly.
Princes Marlo and Merko charged down the hill with six hundred soldiers. They were twins, and the Marlo was the elder. They had just celebrated their twenty-fifth birthday the previous week, and this was their third time in battle. They charged right down the middle of the battle formation and started slicing their way through the enemy. The twins were skilled with the sword. They had learned from General Sarko himself, and the general was the best swordsman in the entire kingdom. In less than a quarter of an hour, the scales of victory had tipped significantly in their favor. Their enemies were losing.
“Twenty-two!” Merko called out to his brother.
“Twenty-five!” Marlo called back.
Merko cursed and smiled as he continued to swing his sword and end lives. Suddenly, he found himself surrounded by six enemy soldiers; two had their spears drawn towards him, and four had their swords ready for attack. He smiled and took off his helmet. It was blocking his peripheral vision. He let it drop to the ground and looked at each of the men.
“So,” Merko said, “which one of you wants to be the first to die?”
Two of the men attacked him with swords on opposite sides, swinging their swords in a downward arc towards his neck from opposite directions. They had walked right into the trap. By taking off his helmet, he had not only freed his peripheral vision, but he had also presented his neck as a perfect target. So, as soon as both soldiers raised their swords, he crouched, spun to his left and, using the momentum of his spin, he drove his sword underneath the helmet of the soldier to his left, where the soldier’s head was unprotected. The soldier was dead before Merko removed his sword. He brought his right foot around his left ankle in a cross step, and his body continued to spin in the same direction. The other soldier had dedicated almost all his strength in the initial blow. When the soldier missed his target, the momentum of his motion caused him to bend forward as his sword struck the ground. Before he could regain his stance, Merko brought the sword down to the back of soldier’s exposed and unprotected neck. The soldier’s life expired as his headless, lifeless body hit the ground.
“Two down, four to go,” Merko said to himself.
From the corner of his eye, Merko noticed one of the soldiers aiming his spear at him. Instinctively, he leaned back just far enough to evade the spear and to see where the helmet of another soldier was exposed. As the spear flew past him and struck another soldier, Merko thrust his sword backward, and stabbed the soldier’s throat. Merko pulled himself back to a regular stance, but only for a blink of an eye. He pinned his sword into the ground rolled forward. The move was so sudden and unexpected that the enemy had no time to react. Merko was in front of the soldier, with his left hand on the back of the soldier’s head. He held the soldier in place as his right hand shot upwards with a dagger like some magic trick.
Merko buried the blade under the soldier’s helmet, punching through the soldier’s throat. His knife hit a vertebra. He instinctively spun around and used the soldier’s dying body as a shield, ignoring the blood running down his right hand as the soldier’s life gradua
lly ebbed away. The soldier appeared to be breathing through the hole in his neck. Merko turned to face the last of the six soldiers, who had his spear his drawn and was looking for an opening to attack. But then, his body abruptly lurched forward, and his spear dropped to the ground as if it had become too heavy for him. The soldier then fell face down to reveal a wooden part of a spear extending from his spine.
“You are very welcome,” Marlo shouted and grinned at his brother.
Merko smiled, removed his dagger from the dead soldier’s throat and let gravity take care of the dead soldier. He then walked over to where his sword was, pulled it from the ground, picked up his helmet, placed the helmet on his head and joined the rest of the fight. Before long, the rest of the army from the Southern Kingdom surrendered and fled for their lives. The Northern Kingdom had won, but the king of the Southern Kingdom had one more final trick off his armor.
“Fetch my bow!” he seethed through clenched teeth.
His face red with anger. His squire did as he was told.
“Where is the arrow?!” he yelled at the squire.
With a shaking hand, the squire pulled an arrow from his quiver.
“No!” he barked. “The arrow, you imbecile!”
The squire reached across his shoulder and unslung the sack he was carrying. He dropped to a knee, placed the sack on the ground and opened it. The sack contained one item wrapped in deer skin. He unwrapped the deer skin and picked up the arrow, making sure he held it from the middle with caution. The king snatched the arrow from squire’s trembling hand and set it in his bow. He pulled as far back as he could and took careful aim. Any of the twins would do just fine! He deserved a small consolation after the emasculation he had just suffered.
The king took a slow, deep breath and waited for that perfect moment. It came, and everything became still from his perspective. The army from the Northern Kingdom was in celebration mode, the enemy was fleeing, and the twins were still arguing about who had more kills. The King of South felt the moment was perfect and loosed the arrow. It tore through the air and glided towards its mark. It moved as if guided by the hands of the gods themselves because the king was a master archer. He watched with one eye closed and the other opened as if the arrow’s path through the air was the most beautiful work of art that ever existed. His arms were still in the draw position. At last, the arrow made contact.
The tip tore through Prince Merko’s armor and chain mail, and came to rest about four inches above his heart. It was almost a perfect shot; close to the heart was acceptable. Marlo stared at his brother’s chest as if he were in a horrible dream. Merko was too shocked at first to feel anything, but when reality set in, he felt the pain and dropped to his knees. Marlo turned his head in the direction whence the arrow came just in time to see the king slowly lower his bow. Across the distance, Marlo could feel the king’s defiance and sense of victory smothering him like a thick, unpleasant-smelling blanket. Nightmare turned to insanity. In that instant, the world ceased to exist, and his life was filled with one purpose and one purpose only: to end the King of the South. The world shrank to this singularity, as he let out a monstrous cry of rage and charged.
The General Sarko immediately tasked his first captain to see to it that young prince got to the infirmary immediately. The first captain swore his life on it as the general drew his sword and charged with Prince Marlo. The soldiers followed their general and prince. More enemy bodies, those who were too slow to flee earlier, dropped dead in their final onslaught. Not a single enemy soldier was spared. The king of the south drew his sword and charged at Prince Marlo. If he would not have the Queen of the North as his bride, he would at least end the bloodline of the King of the North. And even though he was the last man standing in his army, he would not run, he would not back down, he would not surrender. He would end this insolence right here and now, or die trying.
When both men were close enough to each other, the king raised his sword to strike, but Marlo was ready to counter. Marlo drove his right shoulder into the king’s gut with so much force that it knocked the air out of the king’s lungs as the king went flying several meters behind. The king crashed on the ground and his helmet and sword flew in different directions. He scrambled back to his feet only for his face to meet Marlo’s clenched, armored left fist. His lower jaw was broken, and he lost several teeth as flesh and metal collided.
The sky whirled, and the king collapsed to the ground. Marlo picked up the king from the ground with both hands, lifted him up in the air and brought the king’s spine to settle on his right knee with such force that the king looked like a human door hinge. The king’s back was broken, but, because he was not paralyzed, he felt excruciating pain sweep through his body like a ravenous demon. Marlo pushed the king off his knee as if the king were a sack of potatoes. He drew his sword, stood to the king’s left, and raised the sword in the air.
“You… you” the king struggled to speak, his neck as stiff as a sword sheath. “Two… weeks,” he added.
A wicked smile spread across his bloodied face as he retched and convulsed.
“I do not have time for this nonsense,” Marlo sneered and brought down his sword.
The king’s head rolled away from his body. It was a quick fight, and the king of the Southern Kingdom died an excruciatingly painful and horrible death. Not that it mattered, but Marlo thought it would wise to add humiliation to his enemy’s legacy as he reached underneath his armor around his pelvis, unfastened its binds and started urinating on the headless corpse of the King of the southern kingdom. His comrades cheered him on!
Marlo immediately headed back for the palace. He rode his horse so fast that his horse almost gave up on him. Merko was on the bed. His eyes were closed but his chest was rising and falling in steadily. Their parents were in the room, along with some servants and maids. The queen looked like a royal mess, and nothing would stop the tears from running down her cheeks. Her husband held her in his arms in the only consoling gesture he could think of at that moment. Marlo barged in.
“Did you kill him?” King Borash Pakola asked Marlo without taking his eyes off Merko.
“Yes, father!” Marlo replied. “General Sarko is bringing his head. I cut it off myself.”
“Excellent!” said King Borash. “The madness is over.”
He then turned to face Marlo.
“You did very well, son,” King Borash added.
“Thank you, father,” replied Marlo almost dismissively.
“How is he, Kano?” Marlo asked as he turned his attention towards the palace physician.
“Young sire,” the physician started saying, “I am afraid his condition is dire. If you could please come this way, young sire,” he bid Marlo to move closer.
Marlo did and moved from the foot of the bed to perch on the left side of the bed. His armor was stained with dirt and dried blood, but he did not care. Merko seemed to be in a peaceful, dreamless sleep but Marlo feared much worse was going on. He was about to take his brother’s hand in his when Kano stopped him.
“No, young sire!”
“Why not?” Marlo asked, his voice on the edge of anger.
“Do you see this?” Kano pointed at the point of entry of the arrow.
A part of the broken arrow still extended from Merko’s chest like a sick magician’s trick. The flesh around the entrance wound had taken up a black discoloration, which was evidence of a powerful poison at work. The discoloration was radiating outward from the point of entry of the arrow.
“Can you cure him?” Marlo asked his voice a mixture of despair and frustration.
“Young sire,” Kano stammered and swallowed.
His throat suddenly felt parched.
“I am afraid this is beyond my skill. Your brother was struck with an arrow that had been coated in the deadliest poison known to man called kawasha. It is made by a boiling together a mixture of the Egyptian cobra’s venom, poison ivy and some specific herbs from the lands in the far south, beyond the g
reat waters. I do not recall the name of those herbs.”
He shifted his weight from his left leg to his right leg and continued.
“This poison does not to kill quickly. It is intended to cause a slow and painful death by internal organ decay, while one is in a state of wakeful death.”
“So, what you are telling me,” Marlo managed to say after a moment, “is that my brother’s insides are already in the process of decay.”
“Yes, young sire.”
“He’s in excruciating pain.”
“Yes, young sire.”
“And you are saying there is nothing you or anyone can do about this?!” Marlo yelled at the palace physician.
“Young sire,” Kano said weakly. “I have looked after you and your brother ever since you two were born,” his voice broke, and he fought back the tears in his eyes. “If I could, I would take your brother’s place, without any hesitation.”
Marlo realized that he was unfair to the physician.
“Apologies, Kano,” he said. “I meant no ill.”
“No need for apologies, young sire,” Kano replied, mopping his eyes with the sleeve of his garments.
He could not hold back anymore.
“I will do whatever I can to keep him cleaned up, and I will try to feed him as well. I did not want you to touch him for I will not risk you getting poisoned from the sweat of his body.”
Marlo had to maintain his toughness despite all the pain, desperation and helplessness his was feeling, just like his father was. But deep down, he just wanted to scream and let it all out. Marlo wanted to punch the wall; he wanted to burn down the Kingdom of the South, he wanted a miracle. Yes, above all, he wanted a miracle. Right then, he remembered what the king of the south had said right before he beheaded the king.
“Kano,” he said, with a tinge of hope in his voice, “right before I beheaded him, Yushla said something about two weeks. Do you think this may have anything to do with the poison?”
The Bright Eyes (The Soulless Ones Book 1) Page 15